1 Million Black Readers

I’ve always loved to read, and it was magnified in High School, when my auntie would make us check out no less than two books from the local library every two weeks, or however long we had before we had to return them.

And she wasn’t done there.

She also brought ALDI bags to fill with books, checking out tens of books at a time.

We were the only kids who looked like we had just gone grocery shopping as we came out of the library.

This is why I will always be an advocate for reading. In the words of Malcolm X:

“My alma mater was books, a good library…. I could spend the rest of my life reading, just satisfying my curiosity.”

Which is why I teamed up for an amazing challenge.

The 1 Million Reading Black Books Summer Reading Club aims to encourage a million Black people to read at least one book this summer!

Joining is easy.

Pledge to read and finish reading a book by a Black author by the end of the summer.

Repost the graphic and tag a friend.

Follow the host @melanatedreader on Instagram for the next steps.

If you are not on Instagram, I still encourage you to participate just by reading at least one book by a Black author this summer.

Let’s read something other than captions and comments!

What I’m currently reading:
Black Titan: A.G. Gaston and the Making of a Black American Millionaire by Carol Jenkins and Elizabeth Gardner Hines.

Born Worthy

You do not always have to be doing something. You were born worthy.

On Tuesday, May 26, 2026, I turned 39.

And unlike previous years, I didn’t post much about it.

Aside from my stories, I didn’t post the usual cute pic.

It wasn’t because I was sad or ungrateful. I just didn’t feel like it this year.

Where I am usually super excited and bubbly, my mood on my birthday this year was that of Proverbs 27:2, “Let another man praise you, and not your own mouth–a stranger and not your own lips.”

This year, I didn’t feel like broadcasting the day of my birth. As much as I want people to remember me, I also want to let go of the need to control it.

If I were to be remembered, I want it to be a natural, organic occurrence, not a social media notification.

Strangely, I’ve had people say, “I didn’t get a notification.”

I thought it was weird their need to tell me they didn’t know because Facebook didn’t remind them. Just say you forgot, lol.

This further solidified for me why I was not motivated to post about it.

I like surprises and random acts of kindness I didn’t see coming. I don’t want to have to keep repeating the basics.

It reminded me of the quote floating around somewhere that says, “let people do what they want to do, so you can see what they’d rather do,” or some variation.

I prolly butchered that, but the overall point is to let people be themselves and allow their actions, not just their words, to reveal their true character.

I chose to let go of the need to control people’s remembering me, without holding it against those who did not.

In whatever circumstance, I have learned to be content.

These are the thoughts I am still mulling over, praying over, and meditating on in this final year of my 30s.

My key takeaway during these musings was to remember that whether I hosted a grand gesture or sat home in my pajamas eating my favorite snacks (and did), I am worthy regardless.

And so are you.

We do not have to be doing something to earn the title. We have inherit value and inherit dignity.

The 30s have been especially challenging, but I look forward to seeing what this year has to offer as I prepare for my ascension into the next phase of my life.

I cannot believe I will be 40 next year.

Do it hurt, ya’ll?

It Could Easily Be You

When I was ten years old, my family moved to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, just months after learning to walk again after the car accident. It was the only time we did not live in Chicago during my childhood.

Shortly after moving into a big, beautiful home, we were evicted. With only a few family members in the state who decided we could not live with them, my mother and her three daughters went to a woman’s shelter. My brother was welcomed to stay with an older cousin, but she didn’t have room for the girls.

I’ve gone days without food, months without a roof, and years without the kind of nourishment most people take for granted. So watching people mock families who are about to lose their SNAP benefits isn’t just sad — it’s cruel, and it reminds me how easily empathy gets lost in comfort.

In a matter of days, many American families face the risk of losing their food stamp benefits as the Trump Administration intends to cut payments, affecting about 42 million individuals across the nation. What people are feeling and witnessing is not about lazy parents who are not working to put food on the table. This is about a trash economy that has forced even the hardest-working families to rely on assistance. You might not need it today, but that doesn’t mean you won’t need it tomorrow.

Before the stock market crash of October 1929, there was a time of optimism. Many families prospered as cars and new technology grew. People did not expect to go to their banks and be locked out without warning. Families didn’t expect that they would have to stand in bread lines. It happened suddenly, and it could happen to you, too.

“The loss of SNAP benefits leads to food insecurity, hunger, and malnutrition, which are associated with numerous negative health outcomes in children, such as poor concentration, decreased cognitive function, fatigue, depression, and behavioral problems.”

– Melissa Quinn, CBS News

My cousin put it perfectly on Facebook:

“Food stamps fed all of us. Medicaid paid them hospital bills. WIC kept formula in our baby’s bottles. Free lunch stopped our stomachs from growlin in class. The projects gave most of us a roof when we ain’t have one. Financial Aid got a lot of ya’ll them degrees you flexin now. We’ve all had help at some point, so quit looking down on folks still getting it. You just forgot what struggle felt like. Don’t get too high up…the ground still waiting if you fall.”

– Tiff McCormick, Facebook Post

Breaking From Tradition Can Be a Good Thing

My big brother Ray, nieces Gigi, Jamie, Brook, and Me

Some families keep their history alive around picnic tables, their roots watered each summer by laughter, shared meals, and stories that stretch back generations.

Mine did not.

On my mother’s side, there were no great migrations back home for a weekend, no sea of matching shirts declaring our kinship, no annual roll call of who had been born, married, or passed on.

I didn’t grow up with the smell of charcoal and cousins’ laughter drifting across a summer lawn, the kind of memory stitched into photo albums and passed down like a family recipe. Family reunions simply weren’t our thing. There were no matching T-shirts, no group photos under a banner.

Cousin Laura, Pam, and Me sitting in the back of this truck like some thugs, lol

The closest I came to that sense of gathering was at Chicago block parties. We’d shut down the street, our banquet hall, line the sidewalks with tables and sizzling grills, and open the fire hydrant so the water arched into the air like a silver ribbon. Kids ran barefoot through a cracked-open hydrant, laughing because this time, no one called the police.

Music pulsed from speakers, and for one day, neighbors felt like cousins, and the whole block became family.

But it wasn’t our family.

Six years ago, this ended with our generation.

Jeremiah in the background (Nephew), Big Sissy Pamela, and Lil Cuzzo Angela

What began as a simple backyard barbecue has grown, year after year, into something bigger that we can finally call by its true name: a Family Reunion.

It’s a strange and humbling thing to realize we’re the aunts and unks now—the ones setting the tone, carrying the stories, and shaping the memories for our children.

We’ve rewritten the narrative we inherited.

Many of us are building marriages we’re proud of, raising children under our own roofs, and pursuing careers that light us up. We are not lost to the streets, not numbed by addiction, not absent from the lives we brought into this world.

Aunt Barbara, Lil Reg, and his daughters, Gigi and Brooklyn

Instead, we have passports now. We take our children to see oceans they’ve never touched, mountains they’ve never climbed, cities that speak in languages they’ve never heard. We give them richer experiences, not just with our words but with our lives.

Sometimes, breaking from tradition can be a good thing!

My crazy sisters and me: Yecheilyah, Tracey, Pam, and photo bombed by her daughter, Jamie.

Always There Are the Children

Something devastating is happening, a bone-chilling, frightening thing.

The children are dying.

In this year alone, I have learned of the deaths of four young people, three of them children under 25 years old. All of them were from people I know; they were firstborns, the first fruits of their mother’s wombs.

It has made me reflect deeply on how we foster future generations while remembering old ones. As a history buff, I understand how easy it is to dwell on the past. However, I’ve realized that the past, present, and future are inextricably linked; if we ignore one, we disregard the others.

I had the fortunate opportunity to speak with my husband’s great-aunts this past weekend as we mourned the death of their sister, our grandmother. They are all in their 70s and 80s, so I asked them what advice they have for the next generation. Almost everyone said to listen to the elderly. Essentially, you should obey your mother and father. Today, many may refer to this as honoring the ancestors. Whatever phrase you use, the broad consensus is to listen to those who came before you.

Growing up on a farm, where they grew and raised everything they ate, I got the impression they weren’t just saying this because they were elders but that it was a genuine conviction in which they truly believed.

Growing up, many of us heard the warning: “Honor your mother and father so your days are prolonged on the earth.”

I think about the depth of this as I watch the children perish.

One of my favorite poems from Nikki Giovanni is “Always There Are the Children.”

For me, it is a reminder that we do not live forever in these bodies. We will pass on one day, but there will always be children. What we pour into them while we live determines whether there will be more Nikki Giovannis and Maya Angelous.

Unfortunately, we live in a world obsessed with two things: appreciating people only once they’ve passed and only once they have become great. Rarely do we recognize the process and honor the in-between spaces. Seldom do we honor the becoming.

This robs the children.

And the children are not just minors in small bodies; we are the children, too. We are also daughters and sons, and I hope that we learn to nourish ourselves in the same way that those who came before us were nursed, and that we do so early on, rather than waiting until we are thought to have made it, because we are born worthy.

“We prepare the way with the solid
nourishment of self-actualization
we implore all the young to prepare for the young
because always there will be children.”

-Nikki Giovanni

The Amazon Bestseller Approach: A Warning

In the words of James Baldwin, “If I love you, I have to make you conscious of what you don’t see.”

Here’s the Game:

Once upon a time, when print-on-demand publishing became more popular thanks to companies like Amazon and Lulu, self-published authors discovered a powerful manipulation tactic: they could reach a higher ranking by reducing their ebooks to 99 cents and getting all their friends to buy them, skyrocketing their books to the #1 spot.

And before you knew it, tons of Self-Published books, both excellently written and mediocre alike, hit the Amazon Best Sellers List. Some authors even put the sticker on their covers.

It was an exciting time…

…for a few minutes.

Most of these authors stayed at #1 for a maximum of a few hours.

Over time, their book sales continued to plummet until the next book, where they repeated this strategy: setting the price to 99 cents and telling all their friends to buy it.

The problem with this is it caused many Self-Published authors to lust after that pretty orange tag, even if it only lasted for a few minutes.

They’d refresh their browsers repeatedly to see where the numbers are.

When I first put I am Soul on preorder at 99 cents in 2017, it was #7 on Amazon’s Best Sellers list.

But I had only sold five preorders!

Chile, my bank account was dryer than a Popeye’s biscuit.

It looked good on the outside, though, and I was technically a bestseller on paper, but I wasn’t making any money.

By focusing on more organic ways to sell my book, I became a bestseller on and offline.

It wasn’t until I started to shop my books offline and talked to the owners of bookstores that I truly understood how little being an Amazon Best Seller meant to the outside world. I focused my efforts on getting my name out there and increasing my reviews, and this helped me to become an Amazon Best Seller the organic way.

I was also selling out of brick and mortar bookstores and I didn’t have to beg my family and friends to make it happen.

Back to the Story…

The problem with getting all your friends to buy your book is once they’ve bought their copies, the book stops selling.

And that’s what happened to these authors. Unlike traditionally published authors or Indie Authors who focused on other methods and reached the bestsellers through sales, the self-publishers who used the tactic couldn’t maintain the momentum. In a matter of hours, their orange tags were gone.

It’s exciting and praise-worthy to make it onto the best sellers list, whether it’s Amazon or USA Today. However, it is not something Self-Published authors should stress themselves over or allow to consume their writing career.

If the bestsellers list is a goal, authors should strive to do it more authentically. Instead of trying to manipulate the algorithm, focus on selling the book to your target audience, getting early reviews, offering sneak peeks, running Ads, book signings, book tours (virtual or in-person), speaking, and a host of other creative ways to get the word out about your book.

Click here for More Indie Author Basics

Black History Fun Fact Friday – Cane River Creole National Park – Oakland Plantation

On this day in 2016, I posted about a former slave plantation in Natchitoches, Louisiana I visited that weekend. I shared my experience on this blog, but I never made it a Black History Fun Fact. As the memory popped up in my Facebook archives, I decided to add it to the collection. Below is the original post for those of you who were not following me in 2016 and never saw this.

Originally Published on 11/28/2016

I took a week off to unplug and to spend time with my family. In addition to camping, we visited the Cane River Creole National Historical Park in Natchitoches, Louisiana.

Reading and watching movies about slavery is one thing, but touring a former slave plantation is an entirely different experience. I didn’t get very emotional, but I will say for now that gratitude is my best way of describing it—appreciation for all the comforts I enjoy in my life that my ancestors paid for with their blood. As the sun lowered and we prepared to leave, I thought about what they would be doing at this time of the day. I thought about how they’d just be coming in from the fields to prepare for their nightly routines or, perhaps, still working.

Originally called Bermuda, the founder of Oakland was Jean Pierre Emmanuel Prud’homme, who began farming the land in 1785 and received a Spanish land grant in 1789. The land’s first cash crops were tobacco, indigo, and cotton.

The Prud’hommes were the first family west of the Mississippi River to farm cotton on a large scale.

The Overseer’s House

Overseers were the middlemen of the Antebellum South’s plantation hierarchy. Sometimes they were white men working for the slave owner, and other times they were enslaved men hired to rule over their brothers. The “masters” expected overseers to maintain a workforce of slaves to produce a crop. The enslaved were the overseer’s responsibility. He was to keep them working by any means necessary. In return, he got to occupy his own cabin or possibly get a bit more food. The perception was that because his job was “better,” he himself was better off, but he was still an enslaved person.

Close Up: Check Out this Old School Stove!

I also noticed the mud and straw still preserved from the original building of the house.

Slave Quarters turned Home of Sharecroppers

After the Civil War, sharecropper and tenant farmers continued to live on the land up until the 1970s. They worked twelve hours a day, six days a week.

Wash House

Martha Ann, an enslaved Laundress, worked in this wash house in the 1850s. In the 1940s, her descendant, Martha Helaire, earned $4 an hour working here as a Laundress. All we have to do is walk a few steps to the washer and dryer.

Bemuda Store

Opened after The Civil War, sharecroppers and tenant farmers continued buying their supplies from family and farming from this store until 1983.

1983?!

The Prud’homme family owned and operated the store. They also ran the Post Office located inside.

Carpenter Shop

Slaves built and repaired plantation structures from this workplace.

Mule Barn

Smokehouse turned mule barn. Built by the enslaved, the plantation reused the smokehouse to accommodate the mules when the original mule barn burned down.

Cane Syrup Pot

Used to make cane syrup.

On some plantations, they used these pots to punish the enslaved and to boil them alive (as depicted in the movie “Mandingo.” CLICK HERE to see the clip.)

The Big House

This is the porch and perimeter of “The Big House.” We could tour everywhere except for this house. We were not allowed inside, and they did not give us a reason why.

It was overwhelming to look at the trees whose thick branches bowed low. Shading the big house, cooling it from the Louisiana sun, and sheltering it from the River breeze, these trees lined the walkway to the entrance of the gate and were planted in 1825.

Strangers Room

I don’t know what a stranger’s room is (guest room?), but it’s a room in the big house. I tried to take pics of the inside from the window. It looks like the original furniture is still preserved.

Carriage House

The carriage house dates to 1820. In its earlier years, the east bay was used as a horse stall. The overseer had the horse saddled each day and tied to the chain so that it was available for riding and checking the fields.

Square Corn Crib and Cistern

The Corn Crib was built around 1821 of hand-hewn cypress logs and was used to store grain for the plantation. Rainwater was channeled from the crib roof into the cistern, which was 16 ft deep and held 4804 Gallons of water used for watering stock.

Pigeoneer

There are several Pigeonnier’s on the land. The Prud’ Hommes harvested young pigeons for a delicacy called “Squab.”

Chicken Coop

Husband checking out the Chicken Coop.

Fattening Pen

Chickens were bred, hatched and fattened in this area. Turkeys were also raised on the land.

Randoms

What I carried home with me was an even deeper appreciation for those little things we take for granted every day. I was headed back to the campsite to sleep in a tent, but I knew that eventually, I’d be going home to a hot shower, a full meal, and a warm bed. As we packed up to leave the plantation, I considered what it would be like to be forced to stay. What is it like not to have a home to go back to and nothing more to look forward to tomorrow than the same back-breaking work?

My revelations were not just in relation to dark history (I am aware black history is not just about slavery). As I looked around the land, I saw how the enslaved built almost everything on the property. It reminded me of how skillful and resourceful we are as a people. From shelters to clothing, food, and shoes, I thought how empowering it would be to get back to building our own.

Often deemed ignorant and illiterate, the truth is that Israelites, so-called Blacks, were not as naive as we are taught. It occurred to me that many blacks were only lost when it came to adapting and assimilating into American culture. Otherwise, we were expert farmers, inventors, midwives, carpenters, and chefs. Thus, I left not just in appreciation for the tangible things in my life, but for everything my people have endured and the knowledge they’ve passed down to me through the generations.

Being that I drafted this post when we got home so it can be ready for you today, I’m going to crawl into this bed and get ready to catch up. I’ll be scrolling your blogs to see what I missed. The grind continues.

Click here to read more Black History Fun Fact Friday Articles!

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